A Matter of Reciprocity
by Kerkerian-Horizon
Summary: Mrs Hudson and Sherlock have always had a history of looking after each other. When the old lady falls and injures herself, Sherlock is there, of course. Set between TSoT and HLV. No pairings.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

**Author´s notes**: The first part is actually an excerpt from chapter 15 of my story _Hazard Control_. It explains the backstory of Mrs Hudson and Sherlock's acquaintance as I've made it up in my headcanon. I thought it's easier to include it here than simply referring to and have you looking for it. If you've read _Hazard Control_, you can just skip it.

Enjoy!

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**A Matter of Reciprocity**

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Part 1

* * *

"How are things, dear?" Mrs Hudson asks once they've sat down for a cuppa.

"We're getting there," John replies. "Sherlock's increasingly impatient every day. You can imagine how he's keeping me on my toes."

"Oh, yes," she answers, and something in her tone is far too mischievous to be anything but ambiguous.

She blushes when John raises his eyebrow, but can't stop herself from giggling: "I'm sorry, dear," she quickly amends, clapping a hand in front of her mouth. "It's just... I'm so happy for you two! Sherlock's always been so alone, and you- if you don't mind my being frank, the first time you came here you seemed like someone who was thoroughly disappointed in life. Now, don't call me superstitious, but I think perhaps you two were meant for each other."

Along with a surge of adrenaline, John feels a comfortable warmth in his belly which has nothing to do with the tea he's drinking; it's a mixture of pride and happiness.

"Thank you," he says, beaming at the old lady. He recalls the day clearly, how couldn't he: "You called me 'the sitting-down type'," he says.

She waves it off with a quick brush of her hand: "In that regard, I obviously was wrong," she says, "maybe because you seemed so tired."

"I was," he concedes, "I didn't sleep well at that time."

"Yes, I could tell. Now Sherlock, on the other hand- often he only sleeps when his energy has run out. At first I was worried how you two'd get on."

"Oh, right- you'd met him before, hadn't you."

"Yes, dear. And since then, we had kept contact."

"Really?" The thought seems strange.

"Oh, yes. It became more regular after Florida, Sherlock came to visit me about once a month. Sometimes he only needed a place to crash, mind you, when his own flat wouldn't do, but he always kept an eye out for me. He gave me my mobile phone for Christmas," she adds, proudly.

"I didn't know all that," John says, though it fits into the new, unfinished picture of Sherlock which he has developed during the past few weeks.

"Are you going to tell me about Florida?" he then asks.

Mrs Hudson suddenly looks much less elated: "I'm sorry, dear, but I'd rather never talk about that dreadful business again."

"All right," John smiles to show her that he understands. "Did you meet Sherlock there or have you known him before?"

"Oh, I've met him long before that," she says, much less despondent. She contemplatively looks at the ceiling for a moment: "It was quite the coincidence, one might say. We ended up on the same bench in the park twice, one day." She notices John´s confused look: "Not as in being homeless, mind you." she hurries to explain. "Not in the truest sense of the word, anyway."

"Please, do elaborate," John says, his interest definitely peaked.

"Well," Mrs. Hudson sets her cup down. "You know that my marriage wasn't a happy one..."

* * *

Yellow leaves were covering every surface, and the air had a cool touch to it. It was definitely becoming autumn in London; people were walking a little faster and often carried umbrellas with them, as the sky was cloudy and overcast, only allowing the occasional ray of sunshine to highlight the changing colours of the trees and let puddles on the pavement gleam like carelessly strewn diamonds.

The small elderly woman in the crimson coat had been sitting on the same bench in a corner of Hyde Park for several days now. She was always clutching her handbag on her lap and always wearing the same forlorn expression as she stared ahead of her. She wasn't homeless, judging by her hair, her skin, her jewellery, the quality of her clothes and also the lack of any clutter; she was easily scared, often flinching out of her thoughts when people approached the bench, especially tall, broad men. She glanced at her watch from time to time but didn't seem to be in a hurry. She looked fragile.

Sherlock had noticed her on his frequent walks through the park. He didn't come there for the scenery or any recreational purposes; it simply was the shortest route to meet with a man who might be mistaken for a banker from the looks of him, but who in reality was a drug dealer, and one of the more serious ones. Meaning he didn't do business with people who weren't serious about it, or who couldn't pay.

Fortunately, Sherlock could pay and was serious about it. He always knew what he wanted and ordered specific kinds of drugs, making him one of the better customers. They always met in broad daylight and never needed longer than a minute to exchange money for goods.

Sherlock found himself more irritably these days, but he didn't care. No one cared, so why should he. There was no denying that drugs were dangerous, and he knew that he was on the worst possible road. But what had started as an experiment out of sheer boredom had quickly gotten out of hand. And now he couldn't stop anymore, just as he couldn't stop thinking. That however was the only advantage: the drugs allowed his mind some peace. Gave him some time of blessed oblivion, which he craved. He told himself that his mind was still working as well as before, latest proof was the little lady he kept deducing.

His body however showed signs of wear. He found it harder to get moving in the mornings, was more easily tiring, and somehow, his motorical functions were affected. That was, unintentionally, how he had found himself next to the lady on the bench. His legs had been strangely wobbly all day, though he denied to himself that it might have anything to do with last night's dosage or the rather rotten quality of it, which was why he was on his way to meet his dealer.

The lady flinched, but then gave him a nervous smile as he all but collapsed onto the seat next to her. He nodded a greeting in return but was too occupied with himself to pay any more attention to her. He felt shaky and was sweating, and even though he had been walking at a leisurely pace, he felt out of breath.

"Are- are you all right, love?" the lady asked, rather timidly so, and eyed him worriedly.

"Yes," he ground out, "thank you. It's just... a cold."

"Ah." She looked at him for a while longer, but seemed to sense that he didn't want to engage in further conversation.

As soon as he had himself under control, he stood up and left without a greeting.

The dealer did not take his complaint kindly; in fact, he wasn't a man who'd take any complaints at all, paying customer or not. He told Sherlock to piss off and find his stuff somewhere else in the future, and when the young man had turned around and gone back the way he had come, he had given one of his bodyguards, of which he always had one or two around, a nod to follow him.

As a Londoner, you always knew some handy shortcuts; unfortunately, those often were narrow lanes and corners between houses in which, if someone decided to rough you up, you were pretty much helpless and alone.

When Sherlock passed through the corner of Hyde Park a little while later, he was even more unsteadily on his feet; his dealer's lackey had given him a good punching, which Sherlock not only was furious and indignant about, but which also had left him bleeding. He pressed his handkerchief against his cheekbone with his left hand and his right arm against his aching ribs. Damn, it hurt. The brute had had a sound right hook, and Sherlock began seeing spots as he was staggering along the path. At one point he felt like passing out, which was why he ended up on a bench again, only narrowly not missing it. _The_ bench. The little lady was still there.

"Good grief!" she exclaimed. "Have you been mugged?"

Sherlock, not quite having regained his senses, peered at her from under his hand: "I wish," he said.

* * *

John stares at her: "So what had happened to him?"

She shrugs, obviously uncomfortable with naming it: "He had a rather unfortunate run-in with his dealer."

"His..." John looks at his empty cup. "So he really did take drugs."

"Why, yes," Mrs. Hudson clearly is still not happy talking about it. "He was very unhappy and lonely during that time. He felt that he didn't fit in anywhere and just didn't know what to do with his life. So I hired him."

"But- that was later, wasn't it."

"Yes, of course. On that first day, I took him with me and patched him up."

"And he voluntarily went with you?" John looks doubtful.

Mrs Hudson nods: "Yes, dear. I think perhaps he was curious about me, as he had seen me a number of times already. You see, my husband was at work. He was rather heavy-handed with me when he was at home, and I couldn't stand being alone in our flat most of the time. I didn't have anything to do, so I went to the park every day, telling myself there'd be less dread if I was outside."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs Hudson."

"Thank you, my dear."

"How did you end up in Florida then?"

"He was offered work there, and it was understood that I accompanied him. When we got in trouble, I hired Sherlock. And he came to Florida."

"But- that's certainly not what cleaned him up, was it?"

"Well, not immediately, no. The story was a little more complicated. Back in London a while later, Sherlock nearly overdosed. His brother took care of Sherlock then, but he didn't know me, so I only found out later."

"So Mycroft- what? Forced him to undergo detoxification and therapy?"

"Yes, he did. Sherlock went through a terrible ordeal, my dear, but he was strong enough to get through it. You see, the drugs... that hadn"t been him. He had been lonely, that's why he took on that nasty habit."

John smiles: "I'm sure he wasn't anymore, not after he had met you."

"No, not until my husband and I moved to Florida, at least."

"Oh. Right."

Mrs Hudson eyes him affectionately: "But now he's got you," she says, and John understands much better why she is so happy about it.

* * *

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**End of part 1**

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I'm no native English speaker, therefore I apologize for any mistakes.

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	2. Chapter 2

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**A Matter of Reciprocity**

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Part 2

* * *

With a deep frown, Sherlock opened the door to 221B and went inside. He had just come from the lab at Barts, where he had been analyzing dirt samples from a crime scene. Lestrade had asked him to have a look at the case, in that much more amicable way he had adopted around the detective ever since his return, and Sherlock had been grateful for the distraction.

John was on his honeymoon, and Sherlock had been bored. Something about this case was odd, though, and the afternoon in the lab had just proven that; the only problem was that Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on what exactly it was that bothered him.

Slowly, he walked up the stairs, deep in thought. When he had just reached the first landing, he paused, unsure whether he had heard something. After a moment, there it was again- a thin wailing sound, coming from 221A. Not hesitating a moment longer, Sherlock turned and flew down the stairs, case not exactly forgotten but put on hold for the time being.

"Mrs Hudson?"

He found her on the floor in her kitchen, and she was in quite a state, obviously having fallen and landed on her bad hip.

"Oh, Sherlock," she whimpered as he knelt down next to her; from the looks of it, she had been lying there at least an hour. At least she didn't appear to have hit her head, nor was she bleeding elsewhere. Which in this case only brought minimal relief; Sherlock was appalled by the ashen colour of her skin. When he put a hand on her shoulder, he could feel that her whole body was trembling.

"I'm calling an ambulance," he said without preamble, causing fresh tears to run down her face: "No, no, I don't want to!" Her voice was thin and terse with pain. "Sherlock, I don't want to! Just help me up, will you?"

"You shouldn't get up, it might make it worse."

"Please, Sherlock..."

"I don't think we have a choice." Sherlock replied gently, digging his phone out of his pocket. As Sherlock spoke to the operator, Mrs Hudson began to bat at him with one hand, sobbing loudly now. He had never seen her so hysterical, not even during her husband's trial, and it was rather unsettling.

After Sherlock had rung off and quickly put the phone aside, he caught her hand with his now free one and held it as tightly as he could without hurting her further: "Mrs Hudson, look at me. Look at me. It's going to be all right."

"No, it's not!" she hiccuped between sobs, "I don't want to go to the hospital again!"

"You're going to be all right," Sherlock said, trying to appease her.

Still trembling and occasionally making little mewling sounds, she finally calmed down enough to focus on her tenant, and her crying began to subside. Sherlock would have preferred to have John at his side, but since that wasn't possible, he'd have to make do without him.

"You're going to be all right," he repeated, feeling like an idiot because he wasn't of any more help. "I'll stay with you."

* * *

When the ambulance arrived a few minutes later, Mrs Hudson clung to Sherlock's hand as long as possible. He made sure that she could see him even when he had to step aside to let the paramedics do her work. It was rather disconcerting to witness his landlady in such pain and distress; she usually was cheerful up to the point of being annoying, which probably was the reason why she was good at putting up with Sherlock's occasional rudeness.

"... Sir?" Oh. He hadn't been aware that one of the paramedics had tried to address him several times; he had tuned it all out, the standard questions Mrs Hudson was being asked while they tended to her, her now rather quiet sobs.

"Yes. Sorry. You were saying?"

"Your mother insists that you ride in the ambulance with us," the man repeated, "we're taking her to the Royal London."

Sherlock didn't bother to correct him, though he wondered what exactly Mrs Hudson had said. Or maybe the paramedic had just drawn his own, if wrong conclusion. It didn't matter, at least the old lady seemed calmer now.

* * *

In the hospital, Sherlock paced around the designated waiting area restlessly, debating whether he should call John. He'd probably want to know that Mrs Hudson had had an accident; on the other hand, Sherlock didn't even have any information about the outcome yet. And it was John's honeymoon, after all, something which he should enjoy instead of worrying about his former landlady. Having made up his mind, Sherlock put his mobile back into his pocket. He was too agitated to sit down however. If John had been there, he'd have been calm and composed, as usual, which would have been soothing. The doctor had a talent for reassuring people.

Sherlock was pulled out these musings when his phone buzzed a while later: it was Lestrade who was calling. He frowned; he had entirely forgotten the case, it seemed unimportant now.

"Anything?" the DI asked by a way of greeting.

"I'm at the hospital," Sherlock replied, "Mrs Hudson's had an accident."

"... Gosh, I'm sorry," Lestrade replied after a barely discernible pause, sounding genuinely concerned. "What happened?"

"She fell on her bad hip."

"Bugger. So... just forget about the case, all right? You've got other things on your mind now, I understand that."

Sherlock wasn't going to tell him that he actually had done so already, realizing that he was in fact not at all in the mood to investigate further right then, but he gave Lestrade the bit of information he had gained in the lab that afternoon, seemingly an eternity ago.

"Thanks, that's _some_thing," Lestrade said. He hesitated again: "You okay?"

Sherlock was taken aback: "Of course I am."

"Okay... just checking. Call me if you need anything."

Sherlock stared at the phone with a bewildered expression after they had rung off: why wouldn't he be okay? It wasn't him who was injured, after all.

_Goldfish_, he heard Mycroft's voice in his head, and couldn't but agree with him. His thoughts wandered back to John, who'd have asked the same question. Only with John, it wasn't half as annoying. John was a doctor, he was supposed to do things like that. And John was used to it that Sherlock didn't always answer, which was a much more elegant escape than telling lies.

Though if John had been there, he'd have seen the truth anyway. He'd have seen how distraught Sherlock was about how frail Mrs Hudson had seemed, about her breaking down like that, about the accident itself. He wanted her to be all right, he needed her to. Without Mrs Hudson, Baker Street wasn't really home. The house was flooded by emptiness when she was gone.

* * *

Some twenty minutes later, an Indian doctor approached him: "You're here for Mrs Hudson?"

"Yes. I'm her son," Sherlock said without hesitation, hoping that the man didn't recognize him.

"I'm Dr Gupta. If you will come with me, please, I'd like to discuss our next steps." He led Sherlock into a small office and showed him an x-ray picture: "Your mother is suffering from severe osteoarthritis in her left hip, Mr Hudson. The discomfort she's been experiencing during the past few years has derived from the slow but constant wear of the femoral head. The fall today has made it worse, since she's fractured the bone, which has already been brittle. It's only a minor trauma, but given the advanced osteoarthritis, we need to exchange it with a prosthetic implant."

Sherlock's head is reeling; this didn't come as a total suprise, of course, but still- he hadn't expected to be on his own when faced with such news. He'd have expected- well, John to be there, to take care of the medicinal aspects. Sherlock was better at bodies than living beings.

"Meaning you're replacing the hip?" he asked.

"In part," Dr Gupta replied, indicating the x-ray. "I've booked her for surgery tomorrow morning. Until then, she receives pain-relieving medication."

"How long will she have to stay here?"

"Depending on how well she'll heal, it shouldn't be any longer than ten or twelve days. Her stay here will immediately be followed by post-hospital curative treatment."

"Rehabilitation."

"Exactly. It is important in order to improve her mobility and build up the muscles which are stabilizing the hips."

"That will probably take a while."

"Three to four weeks, usually; afterwards, we advise further remedial gymnastics."

Sherlock remained silent for a moment, trying to process all of that. Dr Gupka seemed to sense that, as he just waited patiently.

"Did you talk to her about it?" the detective then asked.

The doctor shook his head: "No, not yet. Since she was very agitated, I considered it wise to get you to join us."

"Yes, well." Sherlock didn't know what to do with his hands. "Let's do that then."

* * *

To Sherlock's relief, Mrs Hudson was not crying any more. She looked tiny in the large hospital bed, and the standard-issue gown she was wearing made her face look even more pale than before. She was propped up only a little bit, but her eyes were open. When she saw Sherlock, her expression lit up, and she immediately reached out for him with the hand which wasn't hindered by the IV.

"Sherlock," she breathed, clinging to him just like before, as though he was providing a lifeline. He gave her a smile, hiding his worries and trepidation about the news she was going to get.

Now that the pain was under control, Mrs Hudson was much more composed however. Her grip on Sherlock's hand was almost painful as she listened to Dr Gupta, but apart from that, she remained remarkably calm, even though the detective could feel her trembling a little when the doctor had finished.

"Well," she said, her voice quavering ever so slightly, "I guess I had it coming." Sherlock was surprised by the surge of relief he felt at that. This was the old Mrs Hudson, the one he'd seen in Florida, the one who was unfazed by his own tongue lashings.

"The prognosis for a full recovery is good," Dr Gupta said. "It will take a while, of course, but you're very healthy otherwise, and it helps that you're rather slender and fit for your age."

Mrs Hudson blushed and looked at Sherlock, who squeezed her hand: "You'll long be home and running about again when Baby Watson arrives." He was tremendously relieved that she had taken it so well and that there hadn't been another panic attack. She really was going to be fine.

* * *

On the following morning, Sherlock arrived at the hospital early. He had gotten home just after midnight, paced around the living room for a while and had eventually lain down on the sofa, weary but wide awake. He tried to think of the case in order to distract himself, but it was futile, as he couldn't concentrate on it; his thoughts were with Mrs Hudson. He had dozed off in the early hours and had napped for an hour or so until the alarm on his phone had woken him.

He had to wait at first, but was allowed to see Mrs Hudson before she was wheeled off to surgery. She looked like she was close to changing her mind again.

"Did you sleep at all, or did you stay awake, worrying?" Sherlock asked after he had bent down to kiss her on both cheeks.

"The bed's not very comfortable," she said, evasively, but her eyes were wide with fear.

"It's a standard procedure," he told her, "they could do it with their eyes closed."

"What if something goes wrong?" she asked, her voice nearly giving out.

Sherlock shook his head: "It won't."

"But what if it does?"

"Then you'll haunt the surgeon for the rest of his life."

"Oh, you," she scoffed, sounding slightly watery. "They told me I'll need a walking aid at first," she then said, "one of those dreadful frames with wheels."

"You should probably try not to bump into too many other people who're recovering from surgery. You'd be allowed to swear like a sailor, however." Sherlock's face was completely serious, which in combination with his words had the desired effect and made her laugh a little.

"Are you staying?" she rather timidly asked after a brief pause.

"Yes, I am. And I called your sister, too. She'll be here tomorrow."

"Thank you." Her gaze roamed over his face: "They believed us," she said, a little mischievously. "About you being my son."

Sherlock smiled at her: "They did. Everyone called me Mr Hudson. It's a little confusing."

She giggled, but quickly turned serious again: "I'm so sorry about the whole mess. I didn't mean to-"

"It's okay," he interrupted her, "you did nothing wrong."

"I was being silly."

"You were being in pain."

"Still, I'm really sorry."

"You've seen me in worse situations, I believe," Sherlock said. "We're even."

"I'm just glad you were there," Mrs Hudson gave him a tiny smile. "And that you're here now. I missed you so terribly, Sherlock." He knows that she's referring to the two years of his absence.

"I was always going to come back," he replied, evasively.

She looked at him, sighing: "Yeah, well- it seems you've been just in time, my dear."

* * *

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**The End**

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Thank you for reading. **Please** leave some feedback!

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There's a similar situation in my story_ Baker Street_ which also deals with their mutual history.

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